WILD FLOWERS. 17 
Kind visitants!, through my sick room 
You seem to breathe an air of health, 
And with your looks of joy 
To wake again the boy. 
And to the pallid cheek restore its bloom, 
And o’er the desert mind pour boundless wealth. 
And whence ye came, by brimming stream, 
’Neath rustling leaves, with birds within, 
Again I musing tread,— 
Forgot my restless bed 
And long sick hours.—Too short the blessed dream I 
I wake to pain!—to hear the city’s din! 
But time nor pain shall ever steal 
Or youth, or beauty from my mind. 
And blessings on ye, Flowers! 
Though few with me your hours, 
The youth and beauty, and the heart to feel, 
In her who sent you, ye will leave behind! 
iW. 
